


I Can't But Maybe

by eoKingdomDom



Category: Besstrashny Plamyah, Original Work
Genre: Alien Biology, Aliens, Damaging reputation, Exhibitionism, Other, Public Sex, Questioning, Sexual Fantasy, ahh more references to my poems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:53:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26451415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eoKingdomDom/pseuds/eoKingdomDom
Summary: A oneshot that could probably act as the unofficial prequel to Never Never in the Valley of Unseen. Features Dactory's rather indelicate imagination.
Relationships: Dactory/Damselfly (Besstrashny Plamyah)
Collections: Besstrashny Plamyah





	I Can't But Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> Context: Dactory is an elite member of society. And here they are in their Globe (a hollow sphere of glass with a digital archive that uses holograms), fantasizing about a cursed trip to the library. Why am I not surprised?

“Oh I just can’t be doing this,” Dactory’s voice echos from the glimmer of the Globe, their hands rake down their face, “This is going to ruin me.”

The glass of the Globe makes no reply, its empty soul as transparent as shame. Shame of the sordid thoughts that trace over every inch of Dactory’s being. They tremble at the suggestions their darling partner has been slipping into their ears. The indignity, the salacity, to put it all on the world’s display is preposterous. How could she suggest such a thing? And on that note.

How could they _want_ such a thing?

They drop to the floor and bury their face into its grounding realm, hands gripping feathers in a frustration that isn’t quite pure. They’re in disbelief at the tangible invasion around their waist that seems to come with this thought. No matter how potent the disgust is, nothing can stop the strange temptation that screams from within. It claws them, asking too many questions that they don’t want to think of the answers for. They don’t want to think about it. They don’t. They can’t! It’ll only corrupt them more.

Oh but it’s no use! Every bite they sink into their brain to shut it the fuck up is only serving to make it scream louder. It wants all the glory in Damselfly’s words, it wants all the humiliation before her eyes, it wants reputation to slide out from beneath them like glaciers to the sea. And they can’t help but cater all its unacceptable thoughts. Regardless of the sheer sin of the ideas, the utter stupidity of the questions, it’s too fucking hot for them to stop. It’s too much. They’re enjoying this too much.

In a writhe they’re on their back and a sound slips out in half horror, half delight. They can’t tell. The thought of Damselfly’s eyes locked upon them throbs like a heartbeat. And the phantom hands creeping up their sides, feeling their darkest parts, is making them gasp. They can almost just _feel_ it. The way those hands slip inside them, take them, make them hers. How they trace circles, dance patterns and utterly _rake_ through their most tender places. How marvellous it would feel, how slack they would go in sheer submission. They would submit to it in an instant and they know it. And the thought of getting so high and stupendous in public, where eyes could watch them surrender… It’s doing things.

Their fingers clasp together and press tight to their chest to resist anything too telling. The Globe, although technically private, is on a public domain. It’s not a place to risk dirty business, only think of it.

And aren’t their thoughts going to strange town?

Further in the fantasy is a level of detail. The library, wrapped in blankets, hands playing underneath. They have a book in front of them and have to try to read through its boring lines while their whole body swoops and swirls in a rather distracting pour of sensation. And they have to stay calm, have to keep control, yet every touch pulls them further away. They raise their head to the people nearby, watching to see if any take notice. In a way, they hope none do. But at the core of things, the thought of numerous eyes turning to them as they struggle to keep a straight face is just _far_ hotter. Damselfly is whispering sweet little questions in their ear. She’s teasing them, asking if they’re going to come, if it’s difficult to keep quiet.

Asking if they like it.

And their response would be a mess. They’d be unable to speak and the little enquiry would drive them high. Coordinated touches would keep them just on the edge, and the ability to stay still would slip further and further with every caress. The words on the book would blur, only the eyes of the onlookers would stay in focus, and they would grow increasingly more concerned.

“I can’t do that,” Dactory whispers in a desperate attempt to rationalise, but the fantasy doesn’t listen. It doesn’t care. Softly, slowly, it just makes the phantom feelings worse, and when Dactory goes still in alarm they intensify. It’s almost like Damselfly is fucking them a little rougher, finding new places to violate within. Their teeth grit as they try to stifle a groan that nearly became aloud, and they’re sure that didn’t look subtle. Maybe there’s no point in it anymore. The library onlookers must be on to the deed and it feels too good to humour them. Damselfly could throw them over the edge and they’d writhe, legs shifting, streamers squirming in a complete amalgam of shame and delight as they come hard in public. The eyes upon them would only make them care less and less, and the image of how ridiculous they’ll become is a damnation deserving praise. And Damselfly doing all this for them, just as she suggested she could… It’s bad, so _so_ bad.

And they _want_ it. They want it so badly that even when their inner voice denies them it hurts. They want it so madly that it makes them cry at the early hours of the morning sometimes. They want it so terribly that they might—just might—let her do it.

“Maybe,” Dactory says quietly, hoping their dignity didn’t hear. Maybe they could be careful about this, maybe they could make it work. Perhaps even just a little sacrifice of reputation could be accommodated for. They hope. They truly hope.

“I suppose it’s something to bring up.”


End file.
